Rehab: World of Its Own

Rehab at King's Daughters' Hospital has become an important part of my life. Three times a week I drive down the hill to have my weight and blood pressure recorded, have electrodes pasted on my chest, and do exercises, which include riding a stationary bike, walking a treadmill, and working out on a "recumbent stepper" (recumbent means lying down, especially in a position of comfort or rest; reclining) -- which means I sit on a bicycle seat and pull and push handlebars while pedaling at the same time, I guess, which is what I do. (The position reminds me a little bit of Hot Wheels or perhaps a Harley chopper.)

In fact the recumbent stepper is the most taxing of the three: Rita told me to slow down this morning because my heart rate was too high. Come to think of it, I dove into it like a black lab into a pond on a hot day. I slowed down and the rate was soon cool.

The room is windowless, which I usually don't like, although today it was fine because it's one of those dreary, drippy days we sometimes have in the summer; it rains a lot but you can hardly tell because it's so humid. The a-c was deeply appreciated today. We have fans too to help us stay cool. I work up a pretty good sweat. The room is cheery enough, with lots of fluorescent lights. The social atmosphere is great most of the time, with lots of joking and laughing. Rita likes to tease and she's fun.

Paige, who is on vacation right now, is a little more businesslike -- less mischievous, I suppose -- but she's not above a laugh and Rita catalyzes her. Paige also happens to be a looker. She was telling somebody that she didn't mind turning thirty and I had to say to her, "It's not so bad to turn thirty when you're a ten." She liked that and I don't think she thought I was an old lech for saying it.

The TV is a bit of a bane -- it's either Fox News or The Price Is Right. I'd rather watch the Hallmark Channel --the a.m. fare is either the Waltons or Little House on the Prairie. Fortunately, Brit Hume and John Gibson (Hannity, O'Reilly, Coulter) are not on in the a.m. and often as not there's some "alert" in which they show footage of the same site of some adverse event over and over and keep trying and seldom succeeding to make genuine news of it. Bob Barker and the old dolls who compete for prizes are much more to my liking. If Bob has a political axe to grind you'd never know it. I think the old boy has charisma.

I'm about as entertained by the commercials as anything -- the Geico Gecko is about my favorite, with his Cockney accent talking of "pie and chips" (I suppose that's steak and kidney pie -- maybe a little mutton). I liked the one where the Taco Bell chihuahua, trotting by, sees the gecko and says, "Oh no! A talking gecko!" but that one was whisked away because Gidget had already been condemned for being p.i. (That was before "The Mind of Mencia.")

Anyhow, we work out and sweat and watch the boob tube and joke and shoot the breeze and laugh. Opal is 85, cute as a wink, and Rita teases her and Opal gives as good as she gets, coming back with some semi-ribald ripostes. Caroline is the wife of Don, who was on the Madison High 1949 runner-ups for state basketball champs, and I was surprised to learn she was the daughter of a man my dad worked with as a fireman at Jefferson Proving Ground in WWII. She is therefore a half-sister of my first sweetheart (we were about six, and I couldn't cross the street to visit her). A pleasant chap from Vevay, a retired banker, is good company. Paige told me I was an "overachiever" one day and that made me feel good.

I feel really exhilarated when I complete the exercises. I cool down a bit and have a cup of cold cranberry juice. It's not a bad routine three times a week.